


Flying Lessons

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: First Time, Futurefic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-29
Updated: 2006-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 09:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/355092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark is still a work in progress. Lex is there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to acampbell and stone_princess for pitching in at the last minute. Couldn't have done it without you two. Thank you so much! For svmadelyn's Under Mistletoe challenge. 

## Flying Lessons

by shattered

<http://shattered.livejournal.com>

* * *

* * *

The AI had told Clark that it was part of fulfilling his destiny. 

By Wednesday, he is still working on the kinks in his takeoff. He's not even at the airborne phase. Maybe if he flaps his arms really hard, the rest will fall into place. 

He calls in sick the next day, and the first part comes to him. It's been years since he's tried to fly, and it's harder now. This time-no town, no lives, no day to save. 

_Bend your knees; crouch down like the ground is a launch pad_... 

The weightless feeling never gets old. Clark hovers two feet off the floor before his left leg crashes into the sofa. At least it broke his fall. 

Maybe it'll come. _In time, in time_. 

* * *

The real question, Clark thinks, is how many hints he's missed before this one. 

"I'm just concerned, honey." 

Mom's never been anything less. There's years of worry on her face, loose strands of silver-red hair, and a dusting of flour across her cheeks. 

He's at home for the first time in weeks--back against the kitchen counter, plate in hand, and about two bites into a second helping when he realizes. This isn't the first time someone's asked. 

"And I don't want to see you alone. That's all," she adds. "And I thought, since you haven't been dating any women..." 

Though he sincerely hopes it's the last. 

She's doing the half-laughter, half-lecture thing again, and Clark wonders if it's possible to feel like fifteen again, even without flannel on his back or the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

"Right, Mom. I know," he replies, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. 

All he wanted was a home-cooked meal, to do a little laundry, make a few repairs around the farm. 

He's on the roof, x-raying the shingles, when she brings up the subject again. 

"And contrary to what your father-much as I love him-might have led you to believe," he hears her say from the porch, "all that really matters is that two people love one another and-" 

"Mom! I get it. I'm not... End of story, okay?" 

It's not the end, he thinks, hammering the loose shingles into submission. 

"Okay, honey," Mom says, not a hint of resignation in her voice. 

_Shit_. This is just the beginning. 

* * *

It sounds different when it comes from your co-workers. 

"All I'm saying, Kent, is that it wouldn't hurt you to consider the possibility." 

"Trust me, Lois. I'm not." 

He cuts her off before she gets to the next part, because Lois is the master of proclamations and self-fulfilling prophecies, and the last thing Clark Kent needs is sexual orientation issues. As if his life isn't already a vanilla-flavored combination of headache-pathetic. 

"How do you know? I'm just asking you to weigh the evidence like any good journalist." 

"Evidence?" Two seconds before asking, he can already taste the regret on his tongue. It's a little like Lois' cooking. 

"Observe," she says, reaching for his arms. 

"Now ordinarily," Lois continues, placing his hands against her chest, "a heterosexual male's natural response would not include... flinching." 

If that's what just happened, it's so not his fault. Sometimes instinct takes over, and he really can't help it if his parents raised him to dial-down any excessively horny, fratboy-like sensibilities. 

"I didn't flinch!" Or did he? "I-" 

"Pulled back. Really quickly. You retreated like you were Napoleon, and my chest was the icy Russian tundra." 

So she goes on one date with Lex Luthor, and six months later, she's still spouting historical analogies like she isn't a Met U dropout with an AA degree and a near-legendary alcohol tolerance level to show for it. 

Before Clark can argue, he pauses, then realizes there's already a solid foot separating his hands from Lois' cleavage. 

This is troubling. Jonathan and Martha Kent raised a 100%, Grade-A, red-blooded, Kansas-by-way-of-Krypton, farmboy. This is Clark Kent. The boy who stumbled through college, gave up on normal, and then renounced his ex-cheerleader-dating, football-playing, letterman-jacket-wearing days. This is the Clark who apparently has an aversion to breasts. Or maybe just Lois' breasts. Breasts? This isn't a good sign. How many straight guys use the word 'breasts'? 

"No straight guys that I know of, unless you count yourself. But I don't. Most pussy-loving men use more descriptive phrases-" Lois cuts in. "Tits, hooters, I'll even give you knockers..." 

The punched-in-the-stomach-by-a-Kryptonite-brick feeling is enough to knock Clark into next week. 

"Okay, well... maybe," he says. 

"See." 

"I said _maybe_. But that's hardly an iron-clad case you've assembled here, Lois." 

Arms folded and eyebrows raised in a you'll-have-to-do-better-than-that expression, she doesn't look particularly convinced. 

He really doesn't want to, but... 

"And what about Lana Lang?" he asks. 

"You know, Carol's working on this great piece about sexually confused teens living in rural, Midwestern communities. Sometimes these kids don't figure it out until they're in their forties and married." 

"But we-" 

"Broke up. Over secrets, lies, your usual MO. Okay, maybe you're bi. I don't know. Who said I'm an expert on the subject? I just call 'em like I see 'em. A Judy Garland impersonator on a parade float, Liberace, a three-dollar bill, Clark Kent..." 

Silently cursing to himself, he watches her stroll into the newsroom kitchen, then reemerge with a pitcher of a water and a glass in hand. 

"Give me a little credit, though, Clark. I'm still trying to test this theory out," she says, swallowing. 

He needs to go for a run. Maybe to a sex shop. Pick up a couple of magazines with pictures of naked people doing naked things. 

"With men or women on the cover?" Lois is definitely leering. 

First order of business, Clark decides, is no more thinking out loud. 

* * *

The distance from the fire escape on Clark's apartment to the ground level is a lot higher than it looks. 

Memo to self: 

When the neighbors see you falling face first into a trash heap, their first instinct is to smile and wave. This is odd but not entirely unwelcome. 

The dumpster doesn't smell as bad when you're sitting in it. 

Memo to self: 

Watch out for alley cats when attempting Kryptonian flight patterns. They aren't too thrilled about being used as a crash pad. 

These are important things to consider when attempting to save the world via airlift. 

Maybe he'll pack a parachute next time. 

* * *

The Inquisitor has better swivel chairs than the Planet. 

"So, what do you think? It's just Lois' residual crazy talk again, right?" Clark says, mid-spin, to a blur of nine Chloes, seven computers, and one extra large cubicle. 

"And now we know what I've been missing at the Planet," she says. "Clark Kent reenacts 'let's take a trip to the merry-go-round!' while contemplating the merits of the almighty cock. Sounds like Perry White's really running a tight ship these days." 

"I came to you because I had a problem, and I thought-" 

"A general rule of thumb." She stops dead in her designer heels, with a look that makes five-foot-three seem a lot closer to eight-foot-one. "I don't talk to rotating chairs. Or couches. I tend to be pretty distrustful of talking furniture in general, really. So your first order of business? Cut. It. Out." 

It's the tone more than the words that he notices. Her voice is deeper, as close to husky as anything coming out of Chloe's mouth will sound--the result of a sudden impulse to start smoking cigarettes. It's like the kind of impulses he might have had in Smallville, but was too young, too guilty, too much and not enough at the same time. Unable to understand, to realize, to act on. 

Now they're both adults in the big city. No parents, no meteor freaks, no small town holding you up or holding you back. It changes you. 

She started smoking over a year ago, and she's still promising to stop once 'the general stress of the new job wears off.' 

A front-page byline changes you, too, he thinks. None of this 'thrill of the pursuit' business anymore; it's all about the final product. The front page--doesn't matter if it's the Inquisitor instead of the Planet--it changes you. 

There's a quick, no-nonsense snap as she smoothes a crease in her blouse. Looks expensive. It probably is. She's all business now. But still recognizable, still the girl who always knew up from down before anyone else did. Maybe it's always been in her blood. 

"So," Clark replies, spin coming to a halt and feet like an anchor as he steadies himself. "What do you think? It's just Lois being Lois, right?" 

"To be honest, the thought _had_ crossed my mind. Once or twice." 

Which, in Chloespeak, translates to "you have a rainbow flag flapping proudly above your head, and you just don't know it yet." 

"I can't believe you're taking her side. You know me." He flashes her a grin, all teeth and can't-resist-me charm. It doesn't work as well on her as it did in Smallville, but to the rest of Metropolis, it's worth its weight in impromptu interviews. 

She smiles at him as if he were a puppy dog. This is good. 

"Don't worry, Clark. You do have a little say in the matter," she says, leaning over to pat him on the head. "Lois doesn't rule your life, much as she might have your balls in a vice." 

Chloe is touching him. This is good. Girls like touching him. Always have. 

Chloe is also laughing. At him. 

This isn't funny. 

"Yes it is," she replies. Voice is robust, full of amusement. It sounds a lot like betrayal. 

Girls are evil. 

Maybe guys aren't such a bad idea after all. 

* * *

When Clark visits Smallville again, he finds an open field where the cows are grazing. Up, up, and... so he's got the up part down pat. Away and down are still... up in the air. 

Everything shrinks as rooftops, clouds, and stars hit eye level. The world below is a series of squiggles, dots, and dashes. 

Even with superspeed and flight (one day), Earth's still too big a place. Plenty of space for a crash landing, but there are too many people to save. Too many voices at once. 

There's no manual on how to fly and land. There's no manual on how to save a world that's too big and too busy to save itself. 

There are too many questions to answer. Too many problems to solve all at once. 

_Start off slow, start off small_. 

Maybe he'll start with Metropolis. 

* * *

By the time Monday rolls around, he's stopped four carjackings, two attempted muggings, and one very persistent Lois Lane from badgering him about 'testing the waters.' 

"Thank God you're finally seeing the light," she says. "This should be fun. I've never played Mary Matchmaker before." 

"Anything that gets you to shut up." 

She ignores it, naturally, of course, then gives him a smile that's all trouble and no warning. 

"All right, Kent. I'd say, given your taste in women..." Lois pauses, lips pursing together and eyes lit like a red light. 

If this was Smallville and they were talking about girls, he probably would have slipped into the safety of his Lanastick, by which no woman, not even Lana herself, could ever measure up to. He'd say she was the only one, and Lois would laugh. Scary thing is, if he admits it to himself, he can't really blame her. 

Lois is just about to open her mouth when the panic button in his head goes on autopilot. 

"What about Brett?" he says quickly, shooting a name out there before she brings up the heterosexual horror that is Clark Kent's past relationships with women. 

Clark doesn't think he's shooting too high when he asks. 

"Brett from Sports? Please. A rookie like you isn't ready to play with the big boys." 

He's not even sure what's considered too high or too low. A virgin when it comes to men, the mere thought of it makes him blush and feel like every inch the awkward kid that Clark thought he left behind in Smallville. 

The one who thought normal was the ideal and decided to call it 'Lana Lang.' 

In those lazy moments when he stops to consider it, it's more sad than silly. He can still see that little boy--too afraid to think of anyone else, too afraid to want anything else other than the girl who lived an adolescence on the opposite end of a telescope, on the opposite end of reality. 

"How 'bout Mike from Metro Biz?" 

"Not into guys prettier than him. Not an option," she says, warm eyes settling on Clark. 

No blush this time, but it makes his cheeks burn. 

Somewhere in high school, Clark stumbled into this strange new world where he noticed those little looks. Sometimes he liked it. Most of the time, though, it made him feel like the stupid kid he always was, the one with a shiny toy that everyone wanted to play with. And not him. Not if they knew what he really was. 

Sometimes, Clark can still see that little boy, who clung to the safety of unattainable objects, the one who finally got his little girl in his little town. Sometimes he wonders when he outgrew the fantasy or if it's the fantasy that outgrew him. 

"Wait a minute!" Lois declares, a shriek of 'Eureeka!' in her voice. "I can't believe I didn't think of him sooner." 

Clark is hopeful. Perhaps more than he should be, but maybe it'll be different with a man. 

* * *

Clark survives the Lois-arranged first date from hell--not completely discouraged, not entirely disillusioned from trying again, but definitely not interested in having her serve as the go-between again. 

The next day, he promptly pays a visit to Chloe's cubicle at the Inquisitor. 

"What about speed dating?" she asks. 

"Speed dating?" 

"No, you're right. I guess you already do enough speeding..." Chloe says, tapping an index finger across her cheek like a metronome, _back and forth, back and forth_. She doesn't look particularly discouraged. "No problem. I'm sure something will come to me." 

"So does this mean you don't mind asking around?" 

"I'll see what, make that _who_ , I can dig up for you." 

"Thanks, Chloe. You're a pal." 

"Well, I wouldn't go thanking me just yet. Trying to find a boyfriend for Clark Kent isn't exactly my area of expertise." 

"You can't do any worse than Lois." 

"She means well." Chloe flips her wrist, checking her watch. It's about two minutes later than when she last checked. "I've got an interview at LexCorp Towers, then lunch with Kahn at noon." 

Clark stiffens at the LexCorp mention, and then drops his eyes to the ground, taking in the carpet like a doctor examining x-rays. 

A quick scan of the room, floor to the ceiling. He never thought he'd see the day the Inquisitor started challenging the Planet for most god-awful gaudy newsroom. It happened the same day LexCorp bought an almost-belly-up Inquisitor, roped in half the Planet's staff, and convinced them that a pay raise and job security was worth the move to the Inquisitor's new building in the West End of Metropolis. 

She's never been the same since. 

"Can I ask you something?" he asks. 

"Shoot. What else is on that mind of yours?" 

"You like working here?" It's something he's been wondering ever since she took the job and said goodbye to bossing him and Lois around at work. 

"Believe me, doing the occasional PR piece on LexCorp is a small price to pay for the freedom to uncover the kind of injustices that the Planet wouldn't dream of printing." 

Clark shrugs his shoulders. 

"And you're okay with that? The compromise, I mean." 

She gives him the kind of look that could only be described as Lexian. 

"You may have a problem with my methods," she says, studying Clark like a crossword puzzle, "but trust me on this, the last thing you should question is my motives." 

Very Lexian. 

"And while I'd love to continue this discussion on Chloe Sullivan's journalistic integrity," she adds, slyly smiling, "I have a puff piece to write for the Inquisitor... and a date to find for Clark Kent, both of which require my utmost attention." 

* * *

Chloe said 7 p.m. at the bar across from LexCorp Towers. 

The room is just crowded enough to blend in and empty enough for the Planet to do a write-up on it as an "undiscovered gem" and a "trendy nightspot." He's already rolling his eyes at the headline. 

"The dcor may seem a little pretentious, but the food's without rival." The familiar voice causes Clark to turn. 

It's Lex. Figures. Impeccable timing at the most inopportune time. 

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Kent," Lex says, friendly in a way that means they aren't really friends at all. 

It's been a week since they last spoke to each other, but it's been years since Clark called it anything other than casual conversation. They never talk about how things used to be. 

And rarely, if ever, about how things really are. 

It's been surprisingly easy for Clark-the settling into the stiff suits, the late nights at the office, and the sleeping in an apartment that doesn't have a barn loft or a view of the western horizon. He entered his twenties, graduated from Central Kansas, then left a small town where people led quiet lives and died quiet deaths. 

He calls Metropolis his home now. 

"Same to you, Mr. Luthor." 

Professional politeness has never been Clark's strong suit. Especially when it comes to Lex. 

It's like some strange game of social tennis where they're both tossing up moon balls and spend most of the time with necks craned to the sky instead of eyes on the other side of the net. He's never been good at this. He's never been good at doing this with Lex, who lets every word linger longer than it should, but always moves faster than Clark's mind has time to process. 

"So what brings you to this fine establishment? Business or pleasure?" 

It's at times like these when he wants grab Lex by the shoulders and shake the old him back into consciousness. Lex, call me Clark. Lex, treat me like your best friend. Lex, treat me like your enemy. Just don't treat me with the same half-hearted disdain you have for everything else. 

Because it's never been like everything else between the two of them, and no amount of time, space, or change in the time-space continuum itself will ever change that. No matter how many changes they go through. 

"It's supposed to be pleasure, though at the moment it feels more like business," Clark replies. 

Palms slightly damp, starched collar chokes his neck like it's his second day on the job. Oh wait, that's exactly what this is. 'My life as a gay man' doesn't quite have the ring of 'Daily Planet staff writer,' but then again, 'Lex Luthor' always sounded more mysterious when he wasn't the guy who always said 'yes' whenever he'd ask for a favor. 

"I'm waiting for... someone," Clark adds. Though the longer he waits, the more the sinking feeling sets in. No one else is coming, Chloe must die, and dinner won't be that bad because at least Lex will insist on paying the bill. 

"Then you won't mind if I join you until this 'someone' decides to arrive, will you?" 

Clark didn't make an explicit invitation for company, but Lex was never the type to wait for one. Not even in Smallville. 

"Not unless you happen to be that 'someone'." 

"Clark," Lex begins. It oozes out slow rather than sarcastic. His name is always going to sound smooth and sexy when coming from Lex's mouth. 

Lex says so much without saying anything at all. Yes, Clark, I am your date for tonight. No, Clark, you don't have a say in the matter. 

"I'm going to kill Chloe." 

"Accuse her of being a sellout. I'm sure it'll have the same effect." 

Lex's smirk cuts through him, and oh, he's definitely enjoying watching Clark squirm. 

"What I don't understand is why you, of all people, would agree to something like this." That's not entirely true. Stuff Clark in an oversize plaid shirt and shove Lex into a mansion in Smallville, and suddenly it doesn't sound so farfetched. 

What Clark really doesn't understand is exactly how and when he became the uptight square that everyone was so entertained by. 

* * *

The alcohol might be the culprit--the copious amounts of it that feel like little more than a giddy buzz when filtered through his alien bloodstream-that has Clark feeling suspiciously at ease with the entire situation. 

The evening is entirely too normal and pedestrian to make any sense. Lex has never been anything less than a six-foot mystery, and it's been years since Clark has regarded him as anything other than a polite conversationalist and a painful reminder of childhood. 

"This isn't you, Lex. You're not-" 

"Having a good time? Interested in talking with an old friend?" 

What Clark wants to say, but doesn't have the sobriety to, is that what they have at this moment is what they haven't had in years. That you can't start and stop and start again with years of intermission in between. That this once-upon-a-time didn't have a happy ending. Or much of an ending at all. 

What Clark wants to say is that a change of address, a few years apart, and a semi-pleasant dinner together can't erase an entire friendship-and fallout-based on secrets and lies. What he wants to say is that, if it could, then he'd be kissing him and hating him and loving him at the same time. 

"Then kiss me," Lex says. 

Damn. He did it again. Opened his mouth and blurted it out when he should kept his lips shut and swallowed the truth whole. 

Like some strange diarrhea of the mouth, it's probably the last thing he should have said out loud to Lex. It's also the only truth Clark's ever told him. 

That love can be unsteady and unsure. Love can be between best friends and bitter enemies. It can be him with Lex. It can be him remembering what it's like to bring someone back to life. 

What's it like to be brought back to life. 

It feels... good. The truth coming out, even just a tiny part of it, and then the touch of lips. 

There's something warm and inviting about kissing Lex. It doesn't feel safe or comforting, but it does feel like coming home. Or just coming. Kissing Lex brings out the horny, fratboy sensibilities in him. He feels like snickering. 

"What's so funny, Clark?" 

"N-nuh?" he answers, as if Lex's mouth were a pillow and it's already the morning after. 

"Will you be in this good of a mood when I'm inside you?" 

Clark's cock reacts, but he makes no response. 

"I hope so, Clark. I hope you'll let me find out." 

It blindsides him. It's utterly romantic and completely out of synch with his every understanding of Lexian seduction-big, sweeping gestures that anyone can see coming from a mile away. 

Clark leans in again, but Lex puts up a hand. 

The bartender is trying not to watch, and Clark is trying not to jump Lex. It's anyone's guess who gives out first. 

"This isn't a good place. For this," Lex says, brushing a thumb across Clark's mouth. "The press could be watching." 

"I am the press," Clark says, half high with kisses and the other half with alcohol. 

"And I. Am. Spartacus." 

Clark didn't mean to channel Lex's inner dork, yet it's a complete rush to Clark's cock that he's still able to, even after all these years. 

Hearing Lex like that--like the one who'd let Clark sit in his study and watch movies, like "Spartacus" during that unit on Roman History in sophomore history-it sounds... old and slightly creaky. Like a barn door with hinges badly in need of oil. 

Lex like this is like a ghost from the past, a reminder of once upon a time in Smallville, with the castle that had the closed doors, but-always-open-to-farmboys-named-Kent policy and the king on the other side who called him his best friend. 

"I remember that movie," Clark says. _I miss that_. That part he doesn't say, but Lex seems to pick up on it anyway. 

He remembers more, but maybe now's not the time. 

There's an expression on Lex's face. It looks like Smallville. It looks like a memory. Of farmboys and castles and once upon a time. 

There are things to say, things to tell. 

Lex gives him a nod, as if to say he's always known. Always known everything, even known that Clark wanted to tell him everything but couldn't. 

"Talk later, Clark. My car is parked out front." 

Maybe he has. 

* * *

Clark remembers their clothes falling to the floor. He even remembers Lex remarking how unnecessary they were. What he forgets, however, is the fact that they're naked and about to stain Lex's sheets with sex, in a bed, in a penthouse, in a city that's miles away from fifteen, first meetings, and a friendship that was supposed to be the stuff of legend. 

"You've never done this before, have you, Clark?" 

He shakes his head. "Never been with a man." It's scary, thrilling, and absolutely necessary. 

"I'm not worried," Lex says, a warm breath away from Clark's nipple. 

Lex kisses one, then the other as if stopping to say a prayer. The first touch of tongue against Clark's skin is teasing, long licks against every inch of skin below his neck and beyond. 

"Feels incredible." 

"Tastes incredible," Lex replies. Moving a hand down toward Clark's cock, he adds, "I hope your body is patient enough for the rest." 

Another shake of the head. Clark's done patient, and he's done waiting before. For years. Minutes don't lend themselves to slow. "Faster-" he gasps out. "Want to have you now." 

"I can do faster." Lex removes his hand, removes tongue, and then disappears into darkness. 

Clark hears the sound of the bedside drawer opening, anticipates his return and the things to come. It doesn't feel like a first time. It feels like the only time, all rational thought and reasoned logic as extraneous as layers of clothing. 

Shifting a hand between his legs, Clark closes his eyes and enters a finger into his ass, imagining Lex inside. 

"Getting started without me?" 

Looking up, Clark grins at Lex as he inches his legs apart. "A little advance preparation never hurt anyone." 

"This is your last chance to back out," Lex says, reaching down to comb pale fingers through a damp curl. He searches Clark's eyes for confirmation. 

A hard swallow, then Clark nods, no smile this time. Breath is heavy, and the weight of the moment is heavier. He can do this. He wants to do this, has always wanted to do this. 

When it comes to Lex, it has never been a question of want for Clark. 

"No turning back." 

"No turning back," Lex repeats, presses against Clark, as his cock, slicked and covered, enters Clark's ass. 

Barely a chance to stretch or prepare himself, the slide in is rough, but Clark doesn't care. 

This is sex with Lex. 

"I don't want you to go slow, Lex." 

Instinct meets abandon as Clark pulls Lex closer, wrapping his legs like vines against Lex's sweat-slicked back. 

There's something natural and heated about the way Lex begins to fuck him. The stretch, slow at first, now rapid in pace, traps Clark between wanting and getting. He moves against Lex, then with him-a violent collision and crash of hip against hip, and each pull out leaves Clark wanting, wanting more in with each new thrust. 

"Clark," Lex chokes out. "It's never going to feel like this--" _again, ever, with anyone else_... 

Before he even has a chance to come, Clark feels it. A pump of the hips, deeper than any other, and Lex is coming inside him, collapsing against him. 

It's sex with a man. It's sex with Lex. 

"Lex. That was-" 

Still inside him, Lex's hand reaches down for Clark's cock, and he silences Clark with a kiss. 

"We're not finished yet," Lex says. 

Clark feels his cock harden against the hard shuffle of skin, expert strokes from someone who shouldn't look as excited, as aroused as Lex does when they're locking eyes. Like now. 

Harder, faster, higher. 

Hand against his cock glides back and forth like wings-fluttering, soaring, and it's as if Clark can see colors in the darkness around them. 

There's tightness, then a release. 

The sensation pulls Clark to orgasm and then sets him back down, gently. It feels like flying. It feels like landing. 

There's warmth all over his stomach. Lips brush his against his, and fingers trek through the come on the planes of his belly--a reminder that everything and nothing is between them. 

"It's been too long, Clark." 

Lex pulls out, and Clark hears the sound of the condom dropping into the wastebasket by the bed. 

The bed. 

Being with Lex, it's easy to lose track of time and place. The sheets-Lex's sheets-are damp, and Clark can't recall how long or how fast his heart has been beating like that. 

"This doesn't have to change things between us," Lex says, a slight curl of his lips, then of his body up against Clark's. "Not if you don't want it to." 

It's already changed him, Clark thinks, even before he realizes the difference between before and after, the difference between knowing Lex and having him. This isn't how it's supposed to work. The sex is supposed to come after the part about declaring your love. But they just had sex, and Clark's seriously contemplating the idea of loving Lex. Like he used to. More than he used to. 

"What if I want it to?" Clark leans in for a kiss. Familiarity is a turn on. This is new. "What if I want things to change?" 

"Then I guess it's a good thing we're on the same page." 

Lex smiles at him, and Clark feels it, first as a shiver in his spine, then as a twitch in his stomach. It's an automatic response, as if an expression is the only answer Clark needs. 

One day he's going to save the world. From pain, from heartache, from suffering. 

Maybe he'll start with Lex. 

_End_


End file.
